


Contours

by sophiahelix



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Angst, F/M, MSR
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2000-09-01
Updated: 2000-09-01
Packaged: 2017-10-19 12:52:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/201054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sophiahelix/pseuds/sophiahelix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The truth is, it doesn't matter whether they are lovers or not. The years have worn them down all the same."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Contours

**Author's Note:**

> Note: A thematic sequel to [Night Touch](http://archiveofourown.org/works/201051). Reading of the first is not necessary to the second.  
> Thanks to Di, Shelba, and Cofax, for keeping me on course

He is so angry with her.

So goddamned fucking angry.

Right-minded, clear-headed, she would have been angry with him for being angry. Right-minded, clear-headed, her cool demeanor would have gradually given way to something more personal, as she inserted small reminders of the past -- his crimes of trust, her loyalty, her need, her disease. Right-minded, clear-headed, she would have made him see how she felt with a few choice words, and when the smoke cleared they would have been their impersonally partnered selves.

If she were to allow herself to be ruled by emotions, just once, she might fear his anger. She's spent years bottling him up, and forgets sometimes how potent his anger can be. Her distilled, pocket-size partner would not be standing in the corner as her lover is, so infuriated that she can almost see every hair on his body seethe individually.

She doesn't know what she thinks; the past three days are such a jumble that she can't even begin to sort through them. She's stunned, reeling, shell-shocked with the enormity of her acts, her failures. She doesn't know what she feels, but it's the same old void of the last few months, alleviated only by a sort of weak horror at her detachment. It's good to feel anything, though.

Sitting quietly on the couch waiting for him to explode is rather amusing, she thinks, toying with her keys. She wonders without caring what she'll do after he finishes his one-sided fight. It's a little late for lunch, but she thinks she might have something left in the fridge. Of course she'll eat alone.

She'll sleep alone too, with pleasure.

He might call tomorrow morning. Or in the middle of the night. She envisions herself sleepily batting at the phone, listening to his rush of apologies, comforting him, then returning to her miserable slumber. Then...

She smiles inwardly at herself for determining the effects before the cause has occurred. Wait and see how this plays out first. If she's lucky, maybe he'll just be willing to let it blow over. If she gets up and leaves his living room now, perhaps he'll glare at the wall until the following morning, when he'll show up puffy-eyed and happy to pretend.

Meanwhile, she feels adrift on an empty ocean, waiting for the storm. Maybe a fight wouldn't be so bad. She feels so much aimless guilt these days, it would be nice to have a reason for it. What will he say to her? Will he be his protective self, and declare he was only concerned for her safety? Will he be uncharacteristically jealous, and make ridiculous accusations? Or will he be the crusader she first knew him as, and rail at her for withholding pieces of his precious quest?

She looks at his angry back, his head turned stoically to the window. There's nothing outside for him to see. Ugly streets. Ugly buildings. Ugly people. A tickle in her throat sneaks up on her, and she coughs, reflexively.

Shit. She's done it now.

He turns around with such theatrical slowness she thinks he must have practiced this move. She holds her breath, quelling an unexpected rush of fear at the sight of his face, set in such a mask of fury that she doesn't recognize him for a queasy moment. There is a terrible, gut-wrenching pause.

"I'm only going to ask you this once," he says, with madman calm. "When the old man first contacted you, why didn't you tell me?"

Her heart in her throat, she remembers mailing those tapes to him at such an expense of terror, those damn tapes lost or burned or thrown in a lake, goddamn it, how could she be so stupid and why is she so afraid of him now...

She takes a deep breath, measuring out the words that will keep this night quiet and rational, far from those strong emotions she fears. Talk him down, Dana.

"Spender contacted only me," she says, with such reasonable serenity she surprises herself. "The offer was presented in such a way that I had no choice but to accept. The terms did not include discussing it with you."

"Shouldn't that have been your first clue that something was wrong?" he asks, maintaining his dangerous composure.

"I beg your pardon?" _Calm, Dana._

Heat creeps into his voice. "Well, if you were specifically told not to speak to me about this little adventure, didn't you realize what that meant? Obviously, it was something I would have seen right through."

Her anger takes her off guard, the frustrated fury she has repressed for so long rising from the pit of her stomach through her throat, like a column of rank smoke.

"What are you implying?" she asks, unable now to maintain her calm facade, giving herself up to the fight. "That I didn't 'see right through' Spender because I was what -- too trusting? Too naive? Too _stupid_?"

"No," he answers, clipped and tense. "I'm not implying anything -- I'm _telling_ you that you didn't know what you were dealing with. Spender has tricked me before. I know the old man's games. You don't."

"Why don't I know them?" she shoots back, beginning to enjoy the flames of conflict. It feels so good to feel anything at all. "Mulder, why don't I know _anything_ about Spender, or his pals, or what they've been up to for the past fifty years? Why do I always seem to miss out on any evidence of conspiracy? Why haven't I seen little green men or flying saucers?"

He seems taken aback at the hysterical note in her voice, and she is grimly satisfied that she has provoked a response in him.

"Maybe it's because you haven't wanted to see them," he says tightly. "And I don't see what that has to do with the matter at hand."

"Whether or not I 'want' evidence makes no difference considering the fact I'm never _given_ any," she replies angrily. "I'm getting tired of living my life as the sidekick."

She doesn't even know who she's angry with anymore.

"Don't you get it? They've brought you in just to _use_ you, right from day one. The fact that Spender has never contacted you means they no longer want you involved. You should be glad," he says, the bitterness stinging even her.

He's making sense, but she can't let the fight go. She needs this anger too much.

" _They_ no longer want me involved, or _you_ don't want me involved, Mulder? Because it seems to me like you've done more than your fair share of keeping me in the dark."

"Really? Over what?"

"Fuck you, Mulder," she spits out, the words nearly burning her tongue. "You know damn well what I'm talking about. Don't make me say it."

Confronted with his blank stare, she whispers through clenched teeth.

"The tests, Mulder. What they fucking did to me. The thing you didn't bother to tell me until we were sitting before a _complete stranger_ , because you couldn't stand to tell me yourself. Like a _coward_."

The words are out before she means them, and she thinks she's pushed him to the limit.

He catches his breath, and she can almost see the thoughts running through his distracted eyes. Either he apologizes now, or she spends the rest of her life bluffing the trust that once came so easily. There's a sickening hush while he makes his decision.

He lets his breath out slowly, and seems to inhale calmness.

"I've explained this to you, Scully. I didn't tell you because I didn't want to hurt you."

She sees it in him now, that maddening rational calm of a fanatic, the complacency that no argument can dislodge. She fucking hates it when he gets like this.

She measures out a breath of her own, trying to still the rage that seems so childish in the face of his self-righteous surety.

"I don't need your protection," she says with difficulty, seeing red at the edges of her vision. "I am a grown woman."

"Who doesn't always know what she's getting herself into," he finishes.

Fury clutches her throat, and she struggles to contain it.

"Mulder, your protective actions are uncalled for in this case. I appreciate the... intent, but I _don't need it_."

Dana...wouldn't the past few days seem to prove otherwise?"

Something seems to tear loose inside her, some last reservoir of her old self, the one suffocated by years of lies and quiet endurance.

"God _damn_ it, Mulder, since when did you start calling me 'Dana'? We are having a fucking professional discussion here!"

"You swearing like a sailor doesn't seem to lend much credence to the concept of a 'professional discussion'," he points out dryly. "And I started calling you Dana when we became lovers." The simple words grate over her skin like rough wool, irritating her to new heights.

"We are NOT lovers in this discussion. We are _partners_ , and we are discussing why you feel it necessary to treat me like a second class citizen."

"Are we?" he asks, and she wonders if now he's just trying to annoy her. "I thought we were discussing the mistake you made in trusting a known criminal."

He's switched roles on her, she thinks, helpless in her rage. Suddenly he's calm and rational and right, and she's the one out of control. The thought makes her even angrier.

"Mulder, I will say this one last time. The offer was presented to me in such a way that I could _not_ refuse. What would you say if someone offered you the cure for every illness known to humankind?"

"If the offer came from Spender in some dark alley, I'd laugh in his face."

"Dark alley? Mulder, he had a goddamn --"

Oh, God. The office. Why didn't she think of it before?

"A goddamn what? Letter of introduction from Acme Conspiracy?"

That beautifully furnished room where the old man told her such lies. How could she have forgotten?

"Mulder -- I met him in an office. In downtown Baltimore. There was a guard -- there might be _something_ still there." She speaks quickly, anger dissipating as she imagines what she might find. Papers? Photos? A disk?

"Do you remember where it is?"

"Yes -- yes, of course." She's halfway to the door already. She passes the kitchen table and grabs his keys, tossing them over her shoulder. She hears him fumble with them.

"Follow me. I'll show you."

**********

As a child, she learned to count small blessings. Daddy was home for Christmas, if not her birthday. The transfer was to Maine, not Singapore. Only half of her clothing this year was hand-me-downs.

The habit has continued into her adulthood. She wasn't killed, only wounded. The murderer was still at large, but at least she'd discovered the cause of death. Her apartment had been trashed again, but it was an excuse for new furnishings.

Today's entry in the Small Blessings category is that she owns her own car. Otherwise, she would have to endure the crackling silence in Mulder's Bureau-issued rent-a-wreck, the motor humming "told-you-so-told-you-so" as he looked down the street, his jaw set with a mixture of pity and triumph.

She'd give almost anything to admit that he's right, that she's made terrible mistakes over the past few days; to curl back up in his arms and let him take care of her the way he so esperately wants to. But she said some horrible things to him outside the office building, her temper finally pushed past the breaking point by the self-righteous look in his eyes.

She can admit that she's wrong, but she can't stand being told so.

And now the question is how angry has she made him? Is it enough to make him take the step she can't bear to make on her own? She can't even remember what she said to him now. She knows the tone of her voice was enough to make people turn their heads as they walked past, pulling them away from their peaceful lives. She knows she dragged things up out of the past, breaches of trust that cut her deep at the time, and have healed only into festering wounds. She knows that she was cruel enough at the end that he actually turned white, his face pale and hurt and uncomprehending. She thinks she may never forget that the image of him turning away, striding with his long-limbed grace to this week's beat-up Ford.

Their fight seems nothing but images, snapshots of love soured and electric. Maybe the words don't matter, but what was meant by them. And what she meant was all too clear.

Is it possible to leave someone without ever telling them so? His leaving today would seem to prove it. Whatever they said to each other, the end result is that she's in her car, driving through unfamiliar streets to her empty apartment, and he's speeding off to destinations unknown, at least one of which probably involves a well-stocked bar. And after all, isn't this what she wants?

Looking back over the dizzying insanity of the last few months, their professional life alternated with snatches of new, raw intimacy, she knows she has provoked the rift. She's just too much of a coward to do it the right way.

Does she love him? Yes.

Does she want him as her lover? The painful answer is no.

No.

No.

This week's mistake was going off with her personal version of evil incarnate, but it's only part of the larger mistake that is being involved with Mulder. Maybe that explains her behavior -- she did it to goad him into leaving, since she could not do it herself.

She's been a fearful fool, hanging on for months, hoping to wake up one morning and want him in her bed, but she knows the days of willful blindness are over. Love is one thing; happily ever after is another. She's learned that the hard way, through loving him in the daylight and shrinking from him at night. It's been a long time since she gave up trying to change herself -- she knows who she is, and some days that's the only thing she's sure of anymore.

None of this helps, she thinks, turning onto the freeway, welcoming the fast pace that precludes too much introspection. Whatever her motives, she's succeeded in banishing him from her personal life. One more path of her life with a 'Detour' sign on it.

A masochistic calm settles over her, as she realizes what a mess she's made of her life, and revels in it. She may have made mistakes. She may have ruined all chances for future happiness. At least she's in control now.

*********

The call she prophesied at an earlier, more rational moment takes her completely by surprise. Startled awake, she succeeds in knocking the entire phone on the floor, where it continues to ring. With a desperate lunge she grabs the handset and pushes the button with her thumb.

"Hello?" she half-growls, still wrapped in the fog of her dream life.

"Oh...god, Dana," a voice breathes. "You're there."

"Where else would I be?" she demands harshly, before she thinks. "It's four in the morning."

A silence on the phone. She lies back on the bed with the phone, waiting.

"I -- we need to talk."

She licks her lips and thinks. Talk about what? The funerary arrangements for a relationship she buried three months ago?

"Just tell me, Mulder," she says, carefully emotionless.

Another silence. "Tell you what?"

"Whatever it is you called me in the middle of the night to say," she answers somewhat testily.

She can tell this isn't the way he imagined this phone call going. He probably thought she'd be lying awake, waiting for him, begging him to rush to Georgetown and assume his usual place in her bed. She doesn't have the courage to tell him that isn't going to happen.

He sighs. "I find it difficult enough to forgive people when they're not biting my head off."

"Forgive?" She is startled into betraying emotion. _Forgive_?

"Yeah. I understand why you said...what you did this afternoon. You've been under a lot of stress. I'm sorry I took your words at face value."

She's going to lose it if she doesn't watch out. All she wants is to just _end this_ now, quietly and with no fuss, and he's trying to forgive her for being herself.

"Mulder...I'm not sorry."

"What?"

"I'm not sorry. You had no right to say what you said to me."

"Wait -- no right to say what?"

She loves how easy it is to argue over the phone. Without him near, without looking in his eyes and remembering why she loved him to begin with, he's just a voice in her ear at four o'clock in the morning.

"No right to belittle me for making professional decisions without you," she tells him flatly. "No right to tell me that I've made a fool of myself. No right to say you've withheld information from me for my own protection. The list goes on, Mulder."

She hears his heavy breathing, imagines him scraping up his dignity to begin their sparring again.

"What do you want me to say?" he asks, unexpectedly.

She honestly does not know. That he's sorry? That he loves her? That he promises to respect her decisions from now on? That he'll stop calling her Dana?

"I don't think...I want you to say anything, Mulder."

"What?"

She speaks with growing conviction, and a sense of detachment from her own calm voice. "I think I want to hang up the phone right now. I think I want to take a few days off. And when I come back to work...I think I'd like for you to call me Scully again."

"What do you mean?" He isn't stupid, but he wants her to spell it out.

She sighs. "Mulder, you know. I want --"

"Don't say it over the phone," he cuts in tersely. "Don't do this now. Tell me tomorrow. If you can say this to my face, I'll believe you."

A chill grips her, as she imagines trying to tell him that she wants to leave with his anxious eyes on her. She knows she'll never have the courage. She may want him to stop touching her, but she knows she doesn't want him to stop loving her. She's starved for the affection, even if she can't seem to accept it. She just needs space.

Space.

Weak relaxation flows through her as she realizes a way out of the difficulty.

"Mulder," she says, with infinite gentleness. "I'm not saying this is the end. But I need some time to myself, all right? Just a few weeks, or whatever, to get myself back on track."

She grits her teeth, preparing for a major concession.

"I think you were...right about my making a mistake with Spender. It wasn't my finest hour. And I think I acted so...foolishly because I'm not quite myself. We -- we've been living in a whirlwind for the last few months."

Nothing but light breathing on his end. Please, God, let him understand.

"How much time are we talking about?"

She shakes her head, forgetting he can't see her. "I don't know. Two weeks, a month, maybe more..."

She hears him take a breath to speak and cuts him off. "If you want to keep this -- whatever we have -- alive, this is the only way."

He considers her ultimatum silently, and then voices his consent with a barely audible sound.

"Thank you, Mulder," she whispers, overcome once more with those traitorous feelings that she can never seem to quench.

"You're welcome...Scully," he says, his voice husky.

There is a long, awkward moment of silence, while she floats in a miasma of relief and regret.  
Is this a mistake? Is this what she really wants?

"So, when can I expect you in the office?" he asks flatly, clearing his throat.

"Um...maybe...Monday?" she answers, floundering. It's Thursday -- time enough. Nothing to get through but a long lonely weekend without bagels or crossword puzzles or Sunday morning walks.

"All right. Fair enough." The detachment in his voice sends traitorous pain through her.

"Okay." Foolishly, she nods again, distracted by the enormity of what they have just agreed upon.

"Okay," he answers. More stupid silence.

"It's late," she finally whispers.

"No, it's early," he whispers back. These pauses are killing her.

"Good night, Mulder."

"Good night, Scully." He wins the brief battle over who will hang up first, and she finds herself sobbing to his dial tone.

************

Two weeks later she finally understands.

They're taking separate lunch breaks now, he fighting for space in the cafeteria upstairs, she unpacking her spartan meal at the desk downstairs. The arrangement came about without discussion and she doesn't mind, although she is not unaware of the irony of his abandoning the office to her. A few years ago that would have been unthinkable.

So now she's sitting with her back to the door, as if being interviewed by some ghostly occupant of the desk opposite her, perhaps the Mulder of years past, young and brilliant and fired with enthusiasm for life and all that it entailed. Or perhaps herself.

She watches the dust motes suspended in golden light, and ignores her limp salad.

The time has been less awkward and more miserable than she anticipated. The nights are very, very hard. It's so strange, considering that, in what now feels like a past life, the nights were an ordeal that had to be endured in order to get enough sleep to function the next day. She expected to feel comforted by the empty expanse of sheet on either side of her. Instead, she wakes up bereft, searching for human warmth. It's unnerving.

Yet the days have not changed. Just as she never would have guessed that sexual intimacy would have had so little effect on their work life, she has been surprised by the fact that ending their relationship has not altered their professional partnership. As long as no personal interaction is required, they still work together in perfect sync, complementing each other in all the ways they used to, theorizing and investigating and solving in harmony.

A stranger would never have known about the current beneath the professionalism, the passion that flowered sweetly and unexpectedly after so many years of platonic intimacy. The same stranger would never know that the flower has died out in a blaze of anger and hurt, that the first heat to touch them has burned their love into a negative of itself.

It is while pondering this oddity that she understands the aching emptiness that has taken the place of stifled depression. The answer to why she can't live with or without him seems so clear, she cannot believe she's lived so long without knowing it.

The truth is, it doesn't matter whether they are lovers or not. The years have worn them down all the same. So much time, and they have been ground into each other's contours like sandstone. She loves him like she loves her own hands. She hates him as she hates the bad parts of herself, the pride and reserve she has fought all her life. They are everything of and to each other.

And so she is miserable and lonely while they are apart, and distracted unto despair when they are together. Their love is smothering, all consuming, and time apart seems the only answer. Their love is pure and good and right and spending their lives together is the only way to do it justice. And she loves him so much it hurts, and can't stand to have him touch her for more than a minute or so, because he loves her but does not understand her.

It's so simple, really, and so dreadful and terrible and hideously funny that she wants to laugh until she falls apart.

He comes in while she is still gasping in helpless paroxysms of awful mirth, and knows once again what it feels like to lose her.  



End file.
